


didst fall from out my prayers

by elynross



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elynross/pseuds/elynross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Restless and driven, Rossetti encounters someone in the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	didst fall from out my prayers

**Author's Note:**

> I make no claims to knowledge that would have made this a richer gift, but I hope that it gives you a smile, at least.
> 
> Written for Rabbit

 

 

It was bitterly cold in London that night, and Rosetti knew that he had no business out in it. Some fever that would not let him settle had driven him out into the night, and he kept going, to no purpose he could discover, unable to stop.

He almost passed the figure on the corner by, but it moved toward him as he went past, and he saw that it was a young man, almost a boy, poorly clothed for the cold. A bundle of newspapers at his feet betrayed his own reasons for being out in such inclement weather, and Rosetti felt the sharp sting of pity.

"Are things so desperate, my boy, that you must be out in this snowy cold, with so few to buy your papers?"

"Needs must, sir -- were you to find your way to a purchase it would go a small way towards finding me out of the cold." His eyes glittered with more than the cold, and Rosetti realized that the man had found another way to fight off the cold.

"What is your name, sir?"

"Francis Thompson, if it please you."

"Whether it please me or not, I suppose does not matter. Come, child, I can give you a place in out of this cold." Rosetti doubted his own sanity, but this purpose served as well as any in explaining his perambulations. He hailed a cab, and ushered the young man into it, over his increasingly weak protests.

"My papers," he cried, as the door started to swing shut.

"Let them go, they'll be old news before morning."

"But I'll owe for each of them!"

Rosetti pounded on the roof, sending the cab onward. "I shan't make you pay for them, as I am kidnapping you away. We'll get you warm and fed, with a bed to sleep in for the night, and before you leave tomorrow, I'll settle a sum on you to cover your debt."

Thompson shivered and nodded, all protest melting away now that he was out of the cold wind. "This is most kind of you, sir."

"Have you no better way to earn a living than this?" The boy was comely, he could see now, although scant of frame.

Thompson smiled ruefully. "I wish to be a writer, sir, only before you can prove yourself a writer sufficient to earn your living, you must prove yourself sufficient to get published!"

"Ah, a writer, is that what you would be? A thankless task, I think, as one who should know."

"Indeed, sir, do you write?"

"I dabble a bit, here and there," Rossetti said. "Some call it poetry, others call it mad scribblings."

"Poetry, sir? Are you published?"

"Here and there, perhaps." The cab pulled up to his residence, and he ushered his captive in, without another word.

Servants used to his mad whimsies took Thompson off for the promised hot bath, while Rossetti went to check on Top, who had contracted a slight fever the day before. The wombat was lethargic, but perked up at the idea of a treat. So it was that Thompson found them, followed by a maid carrying a tray laden with sandwiches and tea. They had clothed Thompson in some of Rossetti's own cast-offs, and while he looked warmer, he was still wan and pale.

"What is _that_?" Thompson asked, stopping to stare at the creature on the table.

"This is Top," Rossetti said, "one of my other eccentricities, along with abducting young men I find shivering on street corners." He dismissed the maid with a wave; she shut the doors behind her as she left.

For long moments Thompson was absorbed with eating, but he kept one curious eye on the wombat, who soon settled back to sleep, when no more treats were forthcoming. His appetite sated, he settled back in front of the fire with a sigh.

"This is most kind of you, sir," he said. "I-- I have no name for you?"

"Come, call me Gabriel," Rossetti replied. He walked closer to the fire, leaning on the mantle. "It will do as well as anything."

"You said you are a poet, Gabriel?"

Rossetti shrugged. "I've been called such, although I write little enough these days, and what I have written I've... buried away."

"Would I have heard of you?"

"Might have, by the name Rossetti."

Thompson swallowed hard, and his glittering eyes went wide, but when he spoke, his voice belied his apparent excitement. "I have indeed heard of you, sir, and the honor is mine."

Rossetti smiled sourly. "Honor must be a trifle, if that is so. Brandy?"

He poured them both a dram, and when he brought Thompson's glass over and handed it to him, Thompson caught at his sleeve.

"Please, won't you sit?"

Rossetti's own eyes widened at the invitation, both the overt, and the implicit. He had had no such intent, although he supposed that his actions could have easily been misinterpreted. He sat, but took the hand remaining on his sleeve, and placed it back in its proper lap. "You misunderstand me, my boy."

Thompson placed his hand once more on Rossetti's arm. "Do I, sir? Then so much the better, as I can offer to you freely, then, without sense of obligation."

Rossetti hesitated; it had been so long, and tonight, in particular, he felt restless and lonely. "You need not," he repeated stubbornly.

"And if I will?" Thompson replied.

"Then who am I to counter a man's will?"

Thompson tasted of brandy and heat, and Rossetti leaned into him, closing his eyes. So very long since he'd been offered such simple warmth, and whatever it made him to take it, in this moment he cared not a whit. Something inside him woke at the touch of Thompson's lips, and he let the passion lead him where it would, putting aside all hesitation and reservation, thankful for the sweet touch of another. And one touch led to another, as they will, hands and mouths making sorties upon fevered flesh, pleasure sought and returned without stinting. And at the end, Rossetti brushed the hair away from Thompson's flushed brow, and found the poetry of their union sweeter than poetry had been, of late.

 

 

 


End file.
